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Those sons of bitches were getting sidetracked.

I’d gotten them as far as the front door, no more than a few yards—which was aggravating, even as I considered it a mini-success. They weren’t looking into the parking garage anymore, and from the space beneath the concrete layers of the garage I could hear the scuffling echoes of people moving quietly, quickly, but not easily, across the cement.

The things behind me weren’t looking that way, or listening that way. They were stopping in front of the open double doors beneath the main overhang. They were looking inside, with those faces that didn’t have any eyes left.

No one within looked back at them; I glanced up at the upper floor windows, wondering how many people might still be left in there. A crowd was assembling on the interstate, less than a quarter mile away. People were hanging off the edge and the guard rails, pointing and chattering, talking, screaming.

I looked up again. Up in the windows I saw a few faces, yes. But only a few.

“Shut the doors!” I shouted up to them. “Wherever you are, shut your doors and hide, for God’s sake!”

Most of the few faces disappeared immediately. I’d stayed in the Read House before. I knew good and well you could hear street noise from the rooms. I knew good and well they’d heard me. To the ones who remained, I shouted again, “Shut your doors! Go shut them! Lock them and hide!”

One or two remained transfixed at the panes, but I figured that Darwin would have to sort them out, if that’s what it was going to come to . . . because like it or not, those things were going in.

They pushed past the doors—which were still propped open—fell inside, recovered, and staggered on.

On the other side of the building, glass was breaking again and there was some shrieking. Were they taking the back entrance too?

“What the hell?” I yelled, demanded. “What do you want? What are you doing?”

The rest of them were there too, even though the water was all but nonexistent. It made them slower, as I already knew; but maybe they’d been practicing while we weren’t looking, because it didn’t stop them. On creaking knees and with reaching hands they dragged themselves up away from the water pooling in the streets and on the sidewalk.

I counted six, no, eight. And there were more on their way. I saw them on the street, still coming and coming faster than those who’d climbed out of the river, because down the street they still moved in their element.

All of them were homing in on the Read House like it was calling them. I had no idea why; but I had an idea who to ask.

I turned on my heels and ran back to the front entrance, where the big green canopy was sagging with the weight of the rain and the glass doors were smeared with greasy black soot and skin. One of the things came close, within arm’s reach. I ducked out of its way but it was quicker than it looked and it snared my sweater.

I kicked at it—threw my foot against its torso and hips because that was all I could reach. It hung on for dear death, and when I shoved my heel against it I heard the cracking of old bones.

One more kick, and by sheer force of inertia I fell free from it, taking a finger or two with me. I picked them off my sweater and threw them down onto the carpet, where they wiggled a redundant, round pattern like a rolling egg.

Two more, up from the other corridor. There they were. And another three through the front door. Jesus, how many of them were there? This was the most I’d ever seen at one time.

For a hysterical second or two I wondered what the proper word for a group of zombies would be—a cluster? A shamble?

Then I remembered they were quickly cornering me—not by speed but by numbers. Access to and from the Read House was limited to a few doors, and these were all being filled with jerking, smelly bodies.

Two sides blocked: coming and going. Still free: the main staircase, and one hallway, which led towards the place where the parking garage opened into the first floor. There were elevators there. I dashed forward and slapped at the up-arrow button. It lit up immediately, but there was no corresponding reassuring ping that indicated a car was waiting.

And just like that, I’d lost my third free corridor. Two more things—I thought maybe they liked to move in pairs—were coming in from the parking garage. If the elevator didn’t open by the count of five, I’d have to double back and try to take the stairs.

One.

Over my shoulder, still no sign of the shuffling, struggling undead. I could hear them all around me now.

Two.

But they hadn’t come into view, which meant the way to the stairs was still free. Not much longer, though.

Three.

The pair at the garage entrance thrashed forward.

Four.

Hands, one missing a couple of fingers, gripped the corner and used it to pull itself forward, bringing a badly burned and barely functioning body along with it. No point in waiting for the stroke of my fifth count.